Raging inwardly I go on climbing, dragging my brute after me, punctuating my Khaidas, come on, with every curse I have ever known in every language. Not yet being acquainted with Arabic, exceedingly helpful in such cases I am told, German-Swiss seems at the moment endowed with remarkable properties.

She spends the best hours of this thankless period in Pudovkin's editing booth, where he has taken her under his wing and explains his work to her.

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Ella Maillart, who has nothing to lose—no political passions—rents a straw mattress in Countess Tolstoy's two-room apartment, lives on tea and black bread, rows on the Moskva River with young workers, and watches Soviet films from Eisenstein to Dovzhenko.

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